My First Addiction
by GoggleLouLou
Summary: A sequel to my story "The Diary of Young Sherlock Holmes". Sherlock has a relapse of his eating disorder whilst living with John. TRIGGER WARNING: Eating Disorders
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock"

There was no response. The detective lay motionless on the sofa, facing the wall, his eyes glazed and his mouth slightly open. Were it not for the slow, steady rise and fall of his ribcage, and the fact that it was not uncommon for John to find Sherlock lying this way, John might have believed him dead.

John set down his coat on the table, crossed the room and sank heavily into his armchair. The deathly pale appearance of his flatmate stirred the caring doctor in him, but his knowledge and experience of Sherlock's less than co-operative personality had so far fuelled his reluctance to confront him. This was, however, the third evening in a row that Sherlock had given John cause for concern, and the doctor's patience was wearing thin.

"I saw Mycroft today" said John, inspecting the back of his flatmate's silk dressing gown. Were those ribs he could see? "He's worried about you." he paused, hoping for a response: any kind of indication that he wasn't talking to himself. When none came, he continued; "Any idea why he might be particularly worried about you at the moment?"

"No you didn't"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"You didn't see Mycroft, and he isn't worried. No more than usual anyway. You are projecting John. You're worried about me and you don't know how to approach the subject. Correct?"

John did not answer. It was quite true that he hadn't seen Mycroft, but he wasn't about to admit that. Sherlock had barely moved up until this point, but now he turned his body to face John and fixed him with a piercing stare.

"I appreciate your concern John, but did you really have to invent a meeting with my brother to bring this up?"

"I... how did you know - "

" - that you didn't see Mycroft? Because he's out of the country John. Until Monday."

John didn't bother asking how he knew this despite not having left the house for two weeks. He found that he didn't really want to know.

"Sherlock - "

"Sherlock! You look so pale, you haven't been eating! Look after yourself!" mocked Sherlock, turning back to face the wall. "I refuse to be involved in this tedious conversation."

John sighed. He had expected this, and yet he had no idea of how to deal with it. He couldn't just do nothing.

"I need to know Sherlock. It's only fair"

"Know what?"

John shifted position uncomfortably. Apart from a very brief discussion the day that Lestrade had decided to use the threat of a "drugs bust" to make Sherlock co-operate, there had been no mention of Sherlock's previous drug use in 221B Baker Street. John had been curious, of course, but he hadn't gone so far as to bring up the subject. However, his suspicions had been mounting and he could no longer sit by and watch.

"Have you been using again?"

"Using what?"

"What do you think?"

Sherlock cracked an amused smile.

"If you are referring to my past use of narcotics, then I have to tell you that I am clean and have been for a number of years. Any other wild accusations you wish to throw at me or are you going to leave me in peace?"

"You know, it would be a lot easier if you could just tell me what the problem is."

"Problem? What problem? Who said there was a problem?"

"Sherlock! You know bloody well that something's wrong. I am a doctor remember? When exactly was the last time you ate anything?"

"Mmmm, two days ago."

"Two...? Sherlock, you need to eat"

"Oh John! Don't be obvious! Of course I need to eat. Just like you need to hold down a girlfriend for longer than a couple of weeks. Funnily enough I don't see either of those things happening any time soon, do you?"

"No, don't turn it round, you need to eat. What are you trying to do exactly? Is this some crazy experiment? Makes a change from human heads in the fridge I suppose"

"I'm bored by this conversation. Please don't try to continue it."

Sherlock refused to say another word all evening. He remained on the sofa until long after John had retired to bed, apparently not moving an inch. The last sound John heard before drifting into an uneasy slumber that night was Sherlock entering his own room and presumably going to bed. John wondered faintly what the point of him moving to the sofa had been in the first place.

The next morning brought with it a dense mist that obscured the view from Sherlock's bedroom window. He barely noticed. He hadn't slept well, but this was hardly unusual, especially at times when he couldn't bring himself to eat. He decided to try one more nap before moving to the sofa and shut his eyes tightly, hoping for any kind of relief from the mental torture that filled his waking hours.

Suddenly his bedroom door opened behind him and he heard John enter the room, clearly trying to be quiet. It had to be John when you took into account the creak of the floorboards as he crept across them. It could be no-one of less than twelve stone. Then again who else was likely to come into his room at all?

"I am awake John" the frail man intoned without opening his eyes.

"Right" came the response, and Sherlock felt a slight pressure on the bed next to him, though not enough to be John himself. "I've brought you some breakfast" said John firmly; "you need to eat it please".

"Oh, what are you? My Mother?" Sherlock snorted, rolling over to see the tray John had brought lying next to him on the bed.

"No, but Sherlock for Christ's sake! You're wasting away, can't you see that? What the hell are you thinking?"

"I think you're boring me, now please leave me alone. You can take your food with you"

"No Sherlock, I'm not going to let this go. I've seen this before you know. In teenage girls who think they're fat. Wait..." he paused "you don't think you're fat do you? Is that what this is about - "

"Give me credit John, I'm the world's most brilliant detective. You don't expect me to believe something so obviously false? I am aware that I am not fat."

"Then why -?"

"Why does anyone do anything John? Because they're human. And though it pains me to admit it, so am I."

"But humans need to eat. That's one of our primary urges. Do you realise how dangerous it is to stop eating like this? You could die Sherlock!"

"Yes, and you know what else could kill me? Smoking, injecting cocaine and heroine into my veins, running around London after dangerous criminals; they're dangerous but I do them anyway."

"You said you were clean"

"I am clean" sighed Sherlock impatiently, sitting up in bed "but that's irrelevant. I'm an addict John, don't you see? This was my first addiction as it happens, and it's not about to disappear because you've brought me some breakfast."

There was a pause. John felt his fists clench and unclench as he tried to process what he was being told.

"What am I supposed to do then?" John finally exclaimed, his voice cracking, "Watch you starve yourself to death?"

"Oh, don't be dramatic"

"I'm serious Sherlock. This isn't on"

"I've survived so far haven't I?"

John scoffed "Barely. Sherlock, have you ever had any kind of treatment? For any of this?"

"Doctors? Yes, seven in my youth and one in my late 20s. They all "cured" me. Before you suggest it, there's no point in going back. I can recover by myself. I have done so too many times to count."

"Recovered from this?"

"Yes. My lowest weight was six and a half stone when I was fifteen. I was ever so proud"

"I thought you said this wasn't about weight?"

"Of course it's not." Sherlock paused, sighed and resigned himself to explaining the damned thing. "The weight loss is just a measuring tool. It's not that I want to lose weight. I want to deprive myself. To hurt myself. To push myself to the limits. Weight is simply a measure of how well I've succeeded in that endeavour."

The stunned look on John's face cut Sherlock like a knife.

"Why would you want to hurt yourself like this?" John breathed slowly.

"Because it's numbing!" Sherlock almost whispered. "Because how else am I supposed to live inside my own mind? It's not like normal people's. It doesn't work the same, you know that."

There was a silence in which John stared blankly at Sherlock and Sherlock at the wall opposite him.

"Look, I know it's difficult to understand but you must trust me."

Sherlock turned to stare straight into the eyes of the doctor, willing him to see through the lies, to force Sherlock to eat, to save him from himself, but at the same time terrified that he would.

"Please"

John sighed, shook his head and said slowly

"You need to sort this Sherlock"

Then he turned and left the room, leaving the breakfast tray behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock heaved himself out of bed, noting the way his weakened muscles complained. _Can't even lift yourself up you're so fat._ How long had it been since he last ate? Well, there was that slice of toast a few days ago and the banana the day before that, but his last proper meal had been almost a week ago. Perhaps he could eat something today? Just something small. He glanced down at the toast John had left on his bed. It was brown bread: full of nutrients. But a familiar snake of anxiety was winding its way across his chest, its muscles constricting in time with the thoughts of eating. Perhaps not today.

It was a Saturday, but John was out when Sherlock finally made his way into the living room of the flat and sank down into the sofa. It was easier to tell how deprived his body was when he was moving about; his limbs felt heavy and his muscles ached. There was a pounding in his head that beat in time to the muscle he could feel contracting obtrusively in his chest. He sighed. How he relished this. The calm of it. How he wished he could remain in this state forever: half alive; half real; half disconnected from everything; tied to this weary body, yet distant in mind. But he knew he could not stay like this. The point of it was not to die; it was more an attempt at living really. How was it that the rest of the world found living so demonstrably easy? How was food so simple to them? How did they go about their lives without injecting class A drugs into their veins or starving themselves half to death or rushing about London after criminals or any other sort of crazy addiction?

He had managed it for a while of course, after that hospitalisation in his first term of University. But that had been before he'd discovered the narcotics: before he almost threw away a perfectly good degree by getting high and then higher; before Mycroft had found him lying in a ditch having overdosed on Heroin two months after graduation.

The steady rise and fall of his chest was the only movement Sherlock made. The rest of his muscles stayed perfectly, comfortably still, and the silence of the room matched the stillness of his thoughts. He used to sit like this often when he first became ill in his teens. He would focus on staying as still as he possibly could, telling himself that as long as he didn't move, everything would be OK. If he didn't move then he wouldn't have to eat and if he didn't eat then he wasn't really a real person.

The sound of a key in the lock downstairs signalled John's return, but Sherlock still did not move, savouring every moment until the spell had to be broken.

As John climbed the stairs, he felt his heart beating a little faster than usual. Despite having grown accustomed to his flatmate's many eccentricities by now, this latest one felt somehow bigger; more significant. This wasn't Sherlock documenting in excruciating detail the differences between types of tobacco ash, this was Sherlock starving himself half to death, and it was difficult to know what to make of it.

Sherlock was laying in his usual position on the sofa with his eyes closed when John entered the flat. He seemed not to be moving at all.

"Morning" John called, as he took his coat off and strolled into the kitchen. "Have you been up long?"

Sherlock did not answer. The silence caused John to take a moment to check that he could still see the detective's chest rising and falling.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John paused, but when there came no reply, he went on; "I'm sorry about this morning. I hope you know I was trying to help." John opened the fridge and began making himself a sandwich. "This is new to me. I don't know what to think or what to do. I mean, this is so much bigger than... than anything I'm used to. I hope that makes sense. Anyway, I'm sorry yeah?"

There was a minute or two in which John buttered his bread and Sherlock continued to lay motionless. Then -

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks"

John exhaled sharply, a grin playing across his lips.

"So are you going to do anything today then or just lay about like usual?"

"Hey! I'm usually running about after criminal masterminds thank you very much."

"Well, got any of that planned?"

"No, there aren't any cases. You could make me a sandwich though. Ham."

"A... what? Of course! A ham sandwich coming right up."

The rest of the day was spent with John reading in his armchair and Sherlock moving only to eat his sandwich and make trips to the bathroom. The painfully slow speed at which Sherlock ate his sandwich was difficult for John not to comment on, but he kept his thoughts to himself. At around 7pm, John put down his book, stretched and said;

"Dinner time I think. What do you fancy?"

"Nothing for me."

"...Right. Are you sure? I mean you've only eaten that sandwich all day. Shall I make you some in case you change your mind?"

"I won't."

John stayed a moment in his chair, thinking, then sighed and made his way to the kitchen, finding out the ingredients to make a bolognese. As he did so, he noticed Sherlock sit up on the sofa and open his eyes.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"How do you live?"

"Sorry?"

"How do you live day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute? How do you not tear yourself to pieces?"

The question startled John. Sherlock had fixed his gaze at a point on the wall opposite him, as if making a point not to look at his flatmate.

"I just kind of... well I have friends – they keep me sane. I read books... try to fill my time up."

"How do friends keep you sane?"

"Well, by sharing in my life... my triumphs and trials. I relate to them. They make me feel normal I guess."

"I've never had friends."

"What? Of course you - Sherlock I'm you're friend."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am! And I want to hear about your life too."

"There's a lot that you don't know about me John. A lot that very few people know."

"I'm listening."

Sherlock stood and began walking towards the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson – she knows. She was perhaps the closest thing I had to a friend at University"

"She – what?" John paused halfway through chopping a carrot "You were at University with Mrs Hudson? I didn't know she even had a degree."

"She doesn't; she was working as a cleaner in my college. It was she who found me after my... my first suicide attempt."

"Your first...?"

"I had holed myself up in my room for days after someone I thought was a friend had read my diary. I was very ill and my diary held the truth about that illness. I was tired, by that point, of fighting and losing. So I gave up." Sherlock was still avoiding John's gaze "I took a cocktail of over the counter drugs and waited for the end but it never came. Mrs Hudson did."

"Sherlock..."

"My whole life has been addiction John; even as a child it was sweets or books. It gets exhausting after a while."

"I can imagine" John swallowed hard, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No you can't John. The number of times I have had to pull myself back from the brink – I'm sick of it. I was hospitalised for my eating disorder three times and for my drug addiction twice. If it weren't for Mycroft having paid for private rehab clinics, I would probably have died some time in my early twenties, and perhaps, really, I should have. I've had three accidental drug overdoses and two suicide attempts. And yet, here I am, against my better judgement, still alive."

"Sherlock, I... I don't know what to say... I'm sorry... that you had to go through all of that. I had no idea."

"Why are you sorry? It wasn't your fault."

"No, it's just... it's something people say."

"Do they?"

"Yes. Look, go and sit down. I'll bring you some spaghetti when it's done."

"No, really, I -"

"You don't have to eat it. Just let me bring it to you OK?"

The men exchanged a glance. That John had heard his tale and was still there was reassuring to Sherlock.

"OK."


	3. Chapter 3

Although the spaghetti remained resolutely untouched by Sherlock, John could not help hoping that their revealing discussion had elicited some progress in the detective. The enormity of his flatmate's disclosure was a little overwhelming, it was true, but John made it through the next day by holding on to the fact that Mycroft was due back in the country on Monday. He would have liked to have spoken to Mrs Hudson, given the revelation that she at least had some experience of this side of Sherlock, but she was visiting her sister for a few days and John wasn't entirely sure when she was due back.

By the time Monday came around, however, John suspected that his hope had been misplaced. To his knowledge, Sherlock had not touched another morsel of food since the sandwich on Saturday afternoon, and John's frustration was slowly building.

"We need to talk" John typed into his phone and hit send. It was midday before he got any reply:

"Meet me at the club in 1 hour"

"What has my brother done this time?" intoned Mycroft as John walked through the door.

"Who said it was about Sherlock?"

"Forgive me John, but why else would you need to speak with me so urgently? I have only been back in the country for an hour and a half. Do take a seat won't you?" He indicated the ornate blue armchair across from his.

"Thanks" John sat.

"Now. Am I to deduce that my dear brother is in some sort of trouble? Severe enough to elicit your concern but obviously something you don't trust him to manage alone, correct?"

"Well, yes."

Mycroft sighed, leant forward in his chair and lowered his voice.

"John, has he been using again?"

"I don't think so, no. I mean he hasn't left the flat in weeks, so I don't see how he could - "

"Oh my brother has ways." said Mycroft, leaning back again "You mustn't underestimate him John, to do so could be fatal"

"No, it's not drugs, really. It's something else. Something new – to me anyway."

"Is it food?"

John nodded.

"Dear me." Mycroft stood, walked over to a cabinet by the window and began pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "I must admit I am surprised – I thought that one had died years ago."

"He's not had it recently then?"

"How much has he told you exactly?"

John shifted uncomfortably.

"A little. He talked about hospitalisations. Overdoses, suicide attempts, starvation. I had no idea he'd had so much going on. It's all a bit..."

"Overwhelming?"

"That's one word."

"Infuriating? Frustrating? Ludicrous?" Mycroft returned to his seat "Believe me, I know the feeling." He sighed deeply. "Does Mrs Hudson know?"

"She's away."

"Pity, she always had a way of getting him to see sense with this particular issue"

"I could try calling her maybe?"

"No, let her have her holiday. He'll be here when she gets back."

"But... I mean – well what if he's not?"

"It's not quite the same as the drugs John. He's not about to overdose. This is like a slow release high."

"But he could have a heart attack! His organs could start failing!"

"I am aware -"

"Are you? He told me on Sunday that he was still alive _against_ his better judgement. What does that say to you exactly?"

"It says that he wants to live."

"How -"

"John, the only other person with whom Sherlock has ever been honest about his addictions is Mrs Hudson, and she has an uncanny ability to pull him out of them. That he is being open with you is a good sign. It means that he wants to live; he's just forgotten how to do so."

"So what do we do then?"

"Well, I wish it were simple. He needs to be under a mental health team really, but he has never taken kindly to being 'told what to do' as he puts it. We can't force him to eat in the same way that we could confiscate drugs. For now, I think, we simply need to keep a close eye on him."

Sherlock's usual sofa lay empty when John arrived back at Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" He called, removing his coat and heading for his flatmate's bedroom door. "Are you in?" He knocked but there was no answer, so he pushed the door open and there was Sherlock, sprawled across the bed with thin sheets covering his pale form. Again, John found himself checking briefly that the detective was breathing. But then Sherlock spoke.

"How was Mycroft?"

"How did you know -"

"Of course you went to Mycroft." said Sherlock, rolling over to face John "People always do. Did he tell you to keep cooking for me?"

"He didn't actually."

"Must have realised it didn't work last time"

"He told me Mrs Hudson can usually pull you out of this"

Sherlock exhaled sharply and a smile played across his lips.

"So, he finally made that connection. Took him long enough"

There was a pause, in which John looked hard at the skeletal shape of Sherlock's left arm – the only part of his body not covered by the sheet. It made the detective look so frail, as though he was an elderly man on the way out, just holding on to say goodbye to loved ones.

"He does care you know Sherlock? Mycroft I mean."

"Perhaps I don't want him to care."

John sighed, rubbed his tired face with his hands and said

"I'm making soup for lunch, do you want any?"

Sherlock stared blankly for a few moments at the wardrobe door handle before saying slowly

"Better not John."

That night, John found it difficult to sleep. The thought of waking up and finding that Sherlock had died in his sleep was too real to him. As he tossed and turned, he slipped in and out of dreams in which Sherlock was dead and Mycroft blamed him, or else Sherlock had become thinner than humanly possible – just a stick figure running about London after criminals – and Lestrade was telling John to stop worrying, that Sherlock was clearly fine.

At around 3am, John woke with a start. He could hear movement in the kitchen; could it be that Sherlock was finally eating something? John slipped out of bed and crept out of his room, heading in the direction of the kitchen. He had not planned to disturb the man, just to observe – to "keep an eye on him", as Mycroft had said, but the sight that met his eyes as he peered round the corner caused John to call out:

"Jesus Sherlock"

The detective was sitting at the kitchen table, every inch of which was covered with packets of biscuits, tubs of ice cream and half eaten cakes and sausage rolls. He was wearing his coat over his pyjamas, but his sleeves were rolled up and his hands and face were sticky with chocolate icing and crumbs where he had been shovelling the food into his mouth moments before.

"Get out!" Sherlock shrieked, but John took a few steps towards him, his face in his hands. "I said get out John! Leave me!"

"No"

"Damn it John!" John took a few more steps towards his flatmate and said, as calmly as he could:

"Sherlock. You need help with this. Ok? This -" he indicated the food laden table "- this is not normal."

"I thought you wanted me to eat." said Sherlock spitefully, picking up a sausage roll and stuffing into his mouth.

"Sherlock"

The detective sprang to his feet, still chewing his mouthful and ran towards the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him and John heard the lock slide across.

How could he have been so stupid as to let John hear? The panic Sherlock had felt as John had moved towards him had been overwhelming. How dare John have looked at him like that? How dare he suggest that Sherlock needed help? Despite it having been years since Sherlock had last forced himself to vomit, he moved fluidly and purposefully; toilet seat up, bend at the waist, left hand pressing on the stomach, right hand reaching to the back of the throat. Then came the familiar squeezing and lurching sensation and, eventually, the physical and emotional pressure that had been building inside of him burst out of his mouth and into the toilet bowl.

As the food left Sherlock's body in waves, so too did the tension and the anger; it poured from him, so that when he had finished, he was left with a calming sense of peace and of equilibrium. The food was gone. The fear was gone.

It took a few moments for Sherlock to pick himself up and begin to clean himself off. He washed vomit from his face and hand and rinsed his mouth with cool water before flushing the toilet and straightening himself in the mirror. Then he took a deep breath and re-entered the main rooms of the flat.

John, as he had expected, was leaning against a kitchen counter, his arms folded, stony faced. The two men looked at each other. They held each other's gaze for a moment or two, but then Sherlock's eyes flicked down and he said:

"I'm sorry John"

"I can't sleep Sherlock." John's voice was measured; purposeful. "I can't think of anything but this; you need help. Now stop being a selfish, stubborn prick and sort this out."

And John walked away, leaving Sherlock staring blankly at the food that still covered the kitchen table.


End file.
